


like a sledgehammer

by colourexplosion



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blood Drinking, Bottom Harry, M/M, Vampire Zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:02:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5098400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourexplosion/pseuds/colourexplosion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Harry’s a good flatmate otherwise. He doesn’t ask questions when Zayn leaves without telling him for a few days and comes back looking refreshed and a bit younger than before. He doesn’t burst into Zayn’s room unannounced and he respects the fact that Zayn doesn’t go out during the day unless it’s absolutely necessary. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>And if he’s figured out Zayn’s a vampire, he’s never brought it up.</i></p><p> </p><p> <br/>Or, Zayn's a vampire and Harry's his human roommate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a sledgehammer

**Author's Note:**

> hello and happy halloween to those who celebrate it!!!! here's some vampire zarry to get you in the mood for saturday. 
> 
> I tagged this with violence just t be safe, because there IS a scene with blood and I know that squicks some people. the title is from 5H's 'sledgehammer' and not a single word of this is true!! big thanks to kate for reading this over!! 
> 
> enjoy!

Zayn blames the garlic. 

A week ago, he’d opened the cupboard and recoiled from the stench of the three -- three! -- rotting cloves. Harry’s always picking up new spices and forgetting about them, sometimes so long that they go bad. He left a container of oregano in there so long that it went from green to grey and lost its smell. When Zayn had asked him why he hadn’t used it, Harry replied with a shrug and the excuse that he _preferred to chop his own, fresh_. Bloody infuriating is what it is, but Harry’s a good flatmate otherwise. He doesn’t ask questions when Zayn leaves without telling him for a few days and comes back looking refreshed and a bit younger than before. He doesn’t burst into Zayn’s room unannounced and he respects the fact that Zayn doesn’t go out during the day unless it’s absolutely necessary. 

And if he’s figured out Zayn’s a vampire, he’s never brought it up. 

But still, rotting garlic is disgusting and Harry needs to get it the fuck out of their kitchen. 

“Hey, Haz,” he shouts, pounding on Harry’s door with an open hand. “There’s something rotting in the kitchen. Come clean it up.” 

It takes a few seconds, but eventually Zayn hears the creak of Harry’s too-low bed -- he’s always complaining about his back and won’t listen when Zayn tells him to get a higher one -- and the shuffle of his feet across the floor. The door opens a second later, and Harry pokes his sleep-mussed head out. 

“What?” 

Zayn’s heart doesn’t skip, because his heart is technically useless, but he does have to fight off an urge to grab Harry’s face and kiss him. It’s a pretty common urge, so he’s used to it. 

“There’s something rotting in the kitchen. Need you to clean it,” Zayn says, scratching at his chin. He realizes too late that Harry had probably been sleeping, and he should’ve just left a note like he usually does, but the garlic is fucking with him more than it should be. He hasn’t had a sensitivity to it in _years_ , not since he made himself live over a pizzeria in New York City for a decade. It usually only gets this bad when he hasn’t fed in a while, but it feels like he fed just last week. Wait, no. It’s definitely been more than a month. Fuck. 

“Why?” Harry asks, his voice gravelly. He looks like he’s on the edge of a strop, and usually Zayn lives for his grumpy face but he can feel a migraine coming on. God, what a cliche. 

“Because it’s yours that you’ve left to rot,” he snaps. Harry’s widen and he leans back a bit, clearly shocked. 

“Alright, fuck,” he says, opening the door fully and pushing past Zayn. “I’ll clean it up. Where is it?” 

“Spice cupboard.” Zayn watches him go, doesn’t even pretend not to look at his arse in his tiny pants and doesn’t follow him. 

Harry disappears around the corner and Zayn listens, biting down on a smile when Harry starts grumbling and puttering around. He hears rustling, a few thuds and the familiar sound of the bin lid snapping shut. Harry comes back into view a moment later, eyeing Zayn like he’s gone a bit mad. The closer he gets, the more Zayn starts to realize that the stench has transferred itself onto Harry. 

He makes a face when Harry stops in front of him. “You reek.” 

“A little garlic never hurt anyone,” Harry responds, and wraps Zayn up in a hug before he can do anything about it. 

It smells awful, the rot mixed with the scent of Harry’s washing powder and the remnants of his cologne. The hug itself is nice, though, with Harry’s long arms squeezed around him and his warm chest pressed up against him. Zayn would probably stay there longer than he wants to admit, even with the smell. 

Instead, he gasps and makes a choking sound that he knows Harry hates, pushing at him until he finally lets go. Harry pouts at him. 

“You’re weird,” he says finally. Zayn snorts. 

“You’ve just attacked me in the hallway,” he says, and Harry rolls his eyes. 

“You woke me up to make me throw away some garlic.”

Right. Guilt creeps up the back of Zayn’s neck. “Sorry,” he says. Harry shrugs. 

“Call it a draw. Goodnight.” And with a wave he disappears behind his door. 

\---

The thing about Harry is that Zayn wanted him the moment he saw him. They’d met in a club, or the back alleyway of a club. The pickings had been slim at that particular venue, so Zayn had slipped away to make his way to his next spot and Harry had been out there, nursing a beer and leaning against the rough wall of the adjacent building. His hair was a mess of curls, not as long as it is now, and his cheeks flushed with the alcohol and the heat from inside, no doubt. Zayn had let his gaze travel up the long legs and land on his slick mouth and felt a pulse of something so strong in his chest that he thought for a minute that he’d come alive. 

“Come here often?” Harry asked, giving Zayn a once-over that made his spine tingle. 

“Yeah,” Zayn had answered, unable to look away from the smooth line of his neck, the pale skin that practically begged for Zayn’s teeth. But, no. Not here. Zayn had convinced him somehow to go back to his flat, but on the way there, Harry was so stupidly charming -- talking about his mum and his sister and his cats and his weird kale cleanses -- that Zayn didn’t have the heart to ruin it. He supposed he could’ve asked Harry, since he seemed like the type of bloke who was up for anything, but still. Liking to be slapped around is different than someone literally feeding off you. 

Zayn hadn’t had a friend in a while, and Harry seemed too good to pass up. So he’d gone out and fed the next night instead. 

That was two years ago. Zayn’s surprised there hasn’t been a problem before now. 

\---

“Listen,” Harry says the next day, mid-afternoon. Zayn’s woken up earlier than usual to go out and feed. His prep takes forever. “I need to ask you a question. Don’t like -- don’t get mad, okay?” 

Zayn scrunches his face up. “Okay,” he says, even though he’s got no idea where this is going. Maybe it’s about the stupid garlic. He’ll just tell Harry he’s allergic, or something. People can be allergic to garlic, right? 

“Are you, like -- ” Harry winces, pausing to run a hand through his messy hair. Zayn tenses, suddenly dreading whatever he’s going to say. _He knows, he’s figured it out, he knows,_ he thinks, gripping the edge of his seat tightly. “Right. Do you have a job?” 

Zayn lets out a tiny breath as relief sweeps through him. God. “Yeah, of course I do.” It’s not technically a lie. He’s a major shareholder in a few separate companies -- all under different names, of course -- and that’s where he gets his funds. He doesn’t really do anything to earn it, but neither do the thousands of other people who live off their investments. “Why?” 

Harry shrugs, still looking uncomfortable. “I dunno. I just, don’t know much about you, I guess. Was wondering.” 

Zayn looks down at his plate and doesn’t answer. It’s not food he wants, but he eats a few meals a week just so Harry doesn’t suspect anything. He pushes a few peas around. When they’d moved in together, Zayn had told him he worked nights to explain the sleeping schedule, and Harry hadn’t pushed the issue. 

“So,” Harry says, still awkward. “You’ve got work tonight?” 

Zayn nods. “Yeah. Um. Just a short shift.” 

“Do you -- ” Harry starts, but stops. “Is it -- What kind of job is it?” 

Fuck. Zayn hasn’t thought this far. Harry never used to ask questions! Why’s he asking them now? Maybe Zayn should just tell him the truth and see where that gets him. 

Nah. 

“Um, you know, just -- stuff. Just a job, Harry, I dunno,” he says, shrugging. It’s lame and it’s obviously a lie, and Harry gives him a reproachful look, all big eyes and pouty mouth. God. This conversation is going to end badly. Zayn can feel it. 

“You can trust me,” Harry says, reaching out across the table, palm up and inviting. Zayn doesn’t take his hand. “I promise.” 

Zayn sighs, closes his eyes and opens them again. “Harry,” he says, but Harry interrupts. 

“Look, how about I’ll just say something and you can tell me whether or not I’m right, okay?” 

“Harry -- ”

“Drug dealer,” Harry says, and Zayn chokes on a breath. 

“What? No, fuck, I’m -- ”

“Cab driver.” 

“No.” Zayn frowns. “Hang on, why would you start with drug dealer?” 

Harry ignores him, “Stock boy at a grocery store? Night auditor? Twenty-four hour helpline specialist?” 

Zayn rolls his eyes. “No, Harry, that’s not what I do. Just let me -- ”

“Zayn,” Harry says very seriously, bending over the table to put his hand on Zayn’s shoulder. It’s a small table, and Harry’s got freakishly long arms. Whatever. “Are you a prostitute?” 

“What? No,” Zayn practically shouts, tearing his shoulder from under Harry’s hand. “Fuck, Harry I’m not a rent boy.” 

“Well, I didn’t say you were a rent boy, did I? I asked if you were a prostitute,” Harry says indignantly, seemingly irritated that Zayn’s moved away from him. As if he’s got any right to be upset with Zayn. Please. 

“Harry,” Zayn says, pinching the bridge of his nose. This has got to stop. He can’t keep telling lies. “I’m not a prostitute. I’m a vampire.” 

The silence that follows is probably the worst of Zayn’s long, undead life. He can’t bring himself to look up at Harry’s face, but he doesn’t know how to gauge this sort of reaction. He can’t think of a single time in two years that Harry’s ever been speechless. 

He glances up finally, stomach knotting when he sees the look on Harry’s face. It’s blank, but almost carefully so, as if Harry’s put on a strange sort of mask. It looks unnatural, unnerving. Zayn doesn’t like it. 

“Harry -- ”

“I was trying to help,” Harry says finally, his voice gone deeper than usual, lined with a sliver of hurt. Betrayal. _He hates me. I’ve lied to him and he hates me_ , Zayn thinks, and reaches out for Harry’s hand. He flinches away, and Zayn pulls his hand back. 

“Harry,” he tries again, but Harry shakes his head, his mouth going thin. 

“No, you -- ” He makes a frustrated noise, almost like a growl, and shakes his head again. “I was trying to -- I was _worried_. Fucking out of my mind that you might be caught up in something or that you were just always going to -- to work the streets to make rent or -- God. I was so fucking worried, and you make it a joke.” 

Zayn’s brain comes to a screeching halt. “What?” 

“A vampire, Zayn, seriously?” Harry gives him a withering look, one that Zayn didn’t even think he was capable of. “What the hell? When have I ever been anything but trustworthy? When have I -- You know _everything_ about me and I don’t even know how you pay your bills!” 

Zayn blinks at him. It’s -- All the things he’s saying are valid. Zayn’s never shared much about his life with him, but only because it’s too hard to explain that your family’s been alive longer than England’s been a country. That he’s been alive longer than the section of London they live in has existed. He’d never wanted to have to keep track of some elaborate lie, so he’d just never said anything. But it’s also ridiculous that somehow he’s to blame for Harry worrying about him. Sure, he’s never said anything about his life, but he also hasn’t given Harry reason to worry. 

“I’m the majority shareholder of four companies,” he says, looking Harry straight in the eye, trying to be as serious as possible. “I can show you the bank statements. I -- I don’t have a job. I lied, I’m sorry.” Harry loses some of his tension then, his shoulder slumping a bit. 

“I’m sorry I lied,” Zayn ventures cautiously, trying to be as delicate as possible. Is there even a way to be delicate about this? Probably not. “But I am a vampire. I’m sorry I lied about that too, I guess.” 

Harry stares at him for a long moment, eyebrows slightly scrunched together and his lips pursed. It’s the same face he makes when he can’t think of the right answer to the crossword, and while Zayn’s against being considered a puzzle on principle, he’ll take it over the range of worse options. 

“Is that why you made me throw out the garlic?” Harry asks finally, the stupidity of it shocking Zayn into a laugh. 

“No, made you throw it out because it reeked,” he says, rolling his eyes. “It doesn’t like, do anything, really. Except give me a headache.” 

“Huh,” Harry says, looking like he doesn’t quite believe what Zayn’s saying. Zayn can’t tell if it’s about the garlic specifically or the whole vampire thing, but he’s not going to press his luck. Harry can ask him if he has questions. It’s easier that way, if people let their curiosity get the better of them. 

Harry looks down at his plate and takes a bite. Zayn watches him for a few moments, waiting to see if he’ll ask anything else, but he doesn’t. Zayn relaxes a bit and tells himself he’s relieved, even though there’s a twinge of disappointment somewhere at the back of his chest. 

\--- 

Zayn’s in the bathroom trying to get his hair to stay up when Harry appears in the open doorway, leaning against the frame. 

“So,” he says, looking at Zayn’s reflection critically. “You’re a vampire.” 

Zayn rolls his eyes and glances at him. “Yep.” 

“Then why’ve you got a reflection?” Harry points a finger at the mirror. 

“The reflection stuff’s a myth,” Zayn says, looking back at his hair. “Spread by us to make it harder to find us.” 

Harry tilts his head. “Is the daylight thing a myth too?” 

“Nah, that one’s real. I’ve got a ring,” Zayn says, holding up his left hand. The skull sits on his middle finger, a gift from his Great Aunt before she left for North America on the Mayflower. “Magic, like.” 

“Magic,” Harry repeats, clearly dubious. He doesn’t say anything else for a moment, and Zayn focuses on his hair. He finally leans back, pleased with the swoop of it and confident it’ll stay up. 

“So you’re going out tonight,” Harry says, and Zayn looks at him, raising an eyebrow, a silent _yeah so?_ “Does that mean you’re going to like, -- ” He waves his hand around, finally gesturing to his own neck with two crooked fingers, miming a bite. 

“Feed?” Zayn supplies, taking a bit too much pleasure in Harry’s grimace. “Yeah. I am.” 

“You don’t like -- The people you feed off, you don’t -- ” Harry trails off, clearly uncomfortable. Zayn realizes what he’s trying to say and feels his face go hard. 

“I don’t kill them, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

Harry gives him a guilty look. “Sorry,” he says, and he sounds so genuine that Zayn instantly forgives him. It’s always been that way with Harry. It’s always been a problem. “I just -- I didn’t want -- I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Zayn says with a shrug, gathering his things and pushing past Harry. “Any more questions, or can I change?” 

“Can I watch?” Harry asks quickly, rushed, like he had to make sure he asked it. 

Zayn stops in the hallway. “What? Watch me get changed?” It kicks something alive in his chest, and he’s sure if he had a heartbeat it’d be hammering away. God, would Harry really want to see him naked? When they met, sure, but it’s been so long that Zayn’s sure the attraction’s faded, it must have. 

“Um, no,” Harry says. _Of course not, stupid_ , Zayn thinks, and steels himself. “I meant. Could I watch you like, feed.” 

It takes a moment, but Harry’s question registers in Zayn’s head and roots him to the spot. That’s not -- No one’s ever watched him feed before, not even the few human companions he’s had over the years. They were more than willing to be a private supply of blood for him, but they never -- No one’s ever wanted to watch. 

“You’re full of surprises today, aren’t you?” Zayn says, finally, swallowing thickly. Harry’s just curious, probably, and nosy, and Zayn’s a proper freak, so why not give Harry a show. 

“You can watch,” he says, “If you think you can handle it.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything but nods quickly, turning on his heel and going into his room. To get changed, probably, which Zayn should also do. Right.

\--- 

The club is dark, just seedy enough that Zayn doesn’t look out of place lingering in a corner booth and scanning the crowd. Harry’s made himself a nuisance by pressing himself against Zayn’s side like they’re together, like he has some sort of claim on him. Any other time, Zayn wouldn’t mind, but Harry’s arm around his shoulders makes him seem less approachable. Or, fuckable. Whatever. 

“Hey, babes,” Zayn murmurs, turning his head to speak in Harry’s ear. He doesn’t miss the way Harry shivers, or the way his pulse speeds up. God, he smells good, like sweat and cologne and _home_ , and not for the first time, Zayn wishes he could taste him and be done with it. “Why don’t you go get a drink?” 

Harry pouts, shakes his head, but Zayn slides a hand onto his thigh and squeezes. “C’mon,” he says, “you’re scaring off my dinner.” 

“Alright,” Harry sighs, pulling away. Zayn misses his warmth immediately. “Don’t do anything without me though, okay?” 

Harry makes it sound almost like he’ll be the one feeding, too. Zayn entertains the thought for a moment, of turning Harry and sharing their meals, introducing him to his family, living out eternity with Harry by his side. Forever, with Harry. He’d take it if he could, but there’s no way. He knows Harry wants a life, a family. Zayn can’t offer that, not really. 

“‘Course not,” he says, sending Harry off with a smile. Not a moment after he’s disappeared into the crowd at the bar does a young blonde woman appear at his side, smiling slowly at him. 

“Hi,” she says, not even trying to be subtle about the way she’s eyeing him. Zayn likes that, appreciates a direct approach, even more so when he’s hungry. “Wanna dance?” 

He rolls his shoulders back, glances to the bar for Harry, and decides yeah fuck it. Harry’ll catch up. Besides, it’s not like Zayn’s gonna bite this girl’s neck in the middle of a crowd. He slides out of the booth and takes the girl’s hand, letting himself be led into the pulsing mass of bodies. 

\---

A sharp tap to his shoulder makes Zayn pull his face from where it’s nuzzled in the crook of the girl’s neck. She smells good, sweet, and Zayn’s been resisting the urge to sink his teeth in for longer than he’d like to think about. 

Of course, he forgets all about her when he turns to see Harry, his green eyes blazing only like they do when he’s pissed. 

“Zayn,” he says, stiffly, ridiculously angry. “You said you wouldn’t start without me.” 

“I haven’t done anything,” Zayn replies, letting go of the girl, who turns to look at both of them. 

“Is this some kind of threesome thing?” she asks, tone wary as she looks from Zayn to Harry. _Not really_ , Zayn wants to say, but he doesn’t really know how else he’d explain it. He can feel her slipping, though, her attention diverting to other people in the crowd. 

“Could be,” he says with a grin, going for it. “If you’d like.” 

The girl makes a face and takes a full step away. “No thanks,” she says shortly, and turns away to disappear. Great. Now he’ll have to find someone else. 

“There, you happy?” Zayn asks, looking at Harry. He still looks pissed. Honestly. What a child. Zayn rolls his eyes and takes a step closer, taking the drink out of Harry’s hand and taking a sip. It doesn’t taste like anything, but the way Harry watches his throat move and stares at his mouth when Zayn licks the remnants off his lips is more than worth it.

“You owe me a drink,” Harry says, when Zayn hands the cup back. His voice has gone deeper than usual, gravelly. 

“You owe _me_ a drink,” Zayn says, stepping into his space and putting his face to the crook of Harry’s neck, lips just brushing the delicate skin. He feels Harry shiver, feels the exhale of ragged breath against the top of his head. “What do you say?” 

Honestly, Zayn isn’t sure why he asks. Apart from the thing where he’s wanted Harry almost every day for two years, he’s not sure why he thinks now is the right moment. Maybe it’s the way Harry’d asked to watch, or how he’s been possessive and obviously jealous all night. Maybe Harry not running away screaming his head off when Zayn told him he was a vampire has given Zayn an extra boost of confidence. Maybe Harry could actually want it, and maybe Zayn feels like he can actually ask. 

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, dropping his cup and bringing his hands up to hold Zayn’s face. “Fuck, please. Please, Zayn.” 

Zayn pulls back to look at him, takes in the blush sitting high on Harry’s cheeks and the way his pupils have gone huge and black. 

“Please what?” he asks, just because he can. 

Harry’s eyes flicker shut and open again, and he leans in, voice low when he answers, “Please suck my blood.” 

The absurdity of it almost makes Zayn laugh, but there’s something genuine in it too, something desperate, and Zayn’s always been powerless against Harry. He couldn’t deny him anything. 

“Yeah,” he says, cupping Harry’s face, running his thumb along Harry’s jaw and down the tendon in his neck. He can feel Harry’s pulse, strong and fast under his fingertips, and it makes him wish, just for a moment -- no, no. It’s not worth it. 

“Back home, then?” 

Harry nods and Zayn pulls him from the club, thankful that they don’t live too far. It’s a short walk and Zayn keeps Harry close, a feeling buzzing through him. He’s excited, he realizes as he pushes Harry up against the door in their flat. He hasn’t been excited to feed in at least a hundred years. 

“You’re sure about this?” Zayn asks, nosing at Harry’s neck, pulling his scarf and coat off for better access. 

“God, yes,” Harry chokes out, hands grappling with Zayn’s jacket and tugging it off. “Do you ever, um, -- ” he breaks off in a moan as Zayn works his hands up his shirt and rakes his nails down his sides. 

Zayn smiles into his collarbone and looks up at him. “What’s that babe?” 

Harry takes a shuddering breath before looking down, eyes heavy-lidded. “You ever fuck people you feed from?” 

Zayn’s hands squeeze Harry’s hips on reflex. Truth be told, he doesn’t, hasn’t had sex in quite a bit longer than he’d like to say, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t very much like to have sex with Harry. Because he would. Very much. 

“Why?” He smirks, pulling Harry down so he can speak into his ear. “You want me to fuck you?” 

“Please,” Harry says on a groan, making Zayn’s smile widen. “Fuck, yes, please.” 

Zayn turns his head, catches Harry’s mouth with his and winds a hand in his hair. “Yeah,” he says, breathless when he pulls away. “Of course.” 

Harry kisses him instead of answering, his big hands cradling Zayn’s jaw and pressing their bodies together. Zayn hasn’t kissed anyone like this in centuries, hasn’t had any reason to and hasn’t had anyone he was interested in enough to go through the effort. Harry, though, Harry’s like a fucking dream, soft and desperate and so fucking responsive. The little hitches in his breath every time Zayn runs his canines over Harry’s bottom lip are driving him mad and the way he keeps tugging at Zayn’s hips, pulling him closer even though they’re as close as they can be, is heady, makes Zayn want to spend an eternity kissing him. 

He’s hungry, though, and he’s been waiting a long time for this. 

“Bedroom,” Zayn says, brushing his lips against Harry’s neck. God, there’s a slight sheen of sweat there already and the skin is so smooth. It’d be so easy just to -- 

“Yeah, okay,” Harry says and pulls away. They strip as they make their way down to Zayn’s room, leaving a (stupidly cliche) trail of clothing in their wake. Harry’s just in his briefs by the time Zayn pushes him through the door, and he’s down to just his open skinny jeans. 

Zayn leans back against the door and flips the light on, taking the time to look at Harry. He’s seen him naked before, sure, but he’s never let himself linger on the sight of it, the long body and smooth expanses of skin. He’s never let himself dwell on Harry’s thighs, which is a horrific mistake, he realizes, since he’d very much like to sink his teeth in there, too. 

“You’re beautiful, babe,” he says, smiling when Harry’s chest and cheeks flush pink. 

“You don’t have to,” Harry mumbles, waving a hand, body folding in on itself a bit. “Like, I don’t need any sweet talk. I’m a sure thing.” 

Zayn shakes his head and pushes off from the door, crossing to Harry. “I mean it,” he says quietly, hands going to Harry’s hips, fingers toying with the waistband of his briefs. “You’re beautiful. I’ve wanted you since I saw you that night.” 

Harry bites down on his bottom lip, lets it slide out from his teeth. They’re bruised red from the kissing, and Zayn can’t help but kiss him again, gently. 

“I wanted you too,” Harry whispers when they pull apart. “Wanted you so bad. Want you now, yeah?” He backs up to the bed, pulling Zayn along with him. He sits down hard and Zayn goes into his lap, tangling his hands in Harry’s curls and tilting his head up to kiss him. Harry moans into it, palming at Zayn’s hips and pushing his jeans down as much as he can. 

“Fuck,” he pants, working a hand into Zayn’s underwear. Zayn’s hips stutter when Harry starts to jerk him, fingers digging into Harry’s shoulders. “You like that?” Harry asks, a smug smile on his face. 

No. Zayn’s supposed to have the upper hand here. He’s the eight hundred year old monster. He’s not letting Harry get away with anything. He doesn’t answer, instead just moves off him and goes to the bedside table, rifling through it. He pulls out a bottle of lube and a condom. He doesn’t technically need it -- the undead can’t really catch STDs -- but he supposes he can never be too safe. Or something. Fuck, whatever, he’s over thinking this. 

He flips onto his back and scoots into a sitting position against the headboard. “C’mere,” he says, reaching for Harry, who scrambles into his lap, over-eager and fucking beautiful. Zayn can see the tent in the front of his underwear, the slightly darker patch on the front from where he’s been leaking and it sends a hot thrill up his spine. That must be the best thing about Harry, he thinks as Harry pulls off his own underwear and then Zayn’s. He makes Zayn feel things. 

Harry settles down on top of him, taking Zayn’s dick in his hand again, slowly jerking it. Right. Zayn has more important things to be thinking about than feelings, obviously. 

“You gonna ride me?” he asks, reaching around to grip Harry’s arse, spreading his cheeks apart and sneaking his fingertips down to rub a dry finger against his hole. Harry’s whole body shudders, his back arching and his eyes snapping shut. 

“Yeah,” he says on a moan, “Please, yeah.” 

“Well,” Zayn responds, his free hand uncapping the lube, “since you asked so nicely.” 

Harry mewls when Zayn works a wet finger into him, just as beautifully responsive as before, grinding down on Zayn’s fingers as he works his way up to three, panting and flushed by the time Zayn pulls them out and grabs the condom. 

“You don’t have to,” Harry says, looking wild-eyed and wrecked, his hair a mess and his chest still flushed. Zayn can practically feel the pulse of his blood under his skin, so he takes Harry at his word and slicks himself up. They both moan when Zayn pushes in, Harry working his hips down in small rocking motions and Zayn countering him until the muscle gives and Harry’s seated on him and completely still, his eyes shut and his chest heaving. It feels good, so fucking good to be enveloped in Harry’s tight heat, and Zayn knows it’ll make the rush of the feeding even better to be able to feel it through Harry’s whole body. 

Zayn runs his hands down Harry’s chest, tweaking his nipples and tracing his tattoos until Harry opens his eyes again and nods, starts rocking his hips and then works his way up to a full bounce, head thrown back as he moves. Zayn holds on to his hips and fucks him hard in counterpoint, changing the angle until Harry starts making little noises and pulling at Zayn’s hair. 

Zayn grins. “That it, babe? That good?” 

“Fuck, yeah,” Harry says, sounding pornographic and too hot for his own good. “Close,” he adds, blinking his eyes open and looking down at Zayn. “M’close.” 

Zayn nods and leans forward, kissing Harry once, hard, before letting his mouth drift to Harry’s neck. He kisses it a few times, runs his teeth over a patch lightly until Harry catches on and gasps. Zayn can feel him start to come as he sinks his teeth in, the blood gushing out almost immediately, hot and tasting just as fucking good as Zayn thought it might. Harry lets out a destroyed sounding wail as Zayn continues to fuck him and feeds off him, sucking up what he can of the blood before he comes. 

Harry slumps when Zayn’s hips have finally stilled, but his grip is still tight on Zayn’s shoulders, his breathing still ragged. Zayn cleans up what he can of the blood and licks over the wound, placing a kiss to Harry’s cheek to let him know he’s finished. He helps Harry lift himself off and lays him down on the bed, fetching some tissues and cleaning off their bellies.

Harry catches him as he leans over to toss the tissues with a hand around the back of Zayn’s neck. Zayn looks at him, surprised at how alert he seems. Usually people go right to sleep after Zayn’s done with them. He supposes Harry’s always been different, though. 

“Hi,” Harry says, voice low and raspy. It makes Zayn smile. 

“Hey,” he says, and leans down to kiss him. It’s slow and sweet, languid and easy. Zayn’s not trying to start something else. Not just yet, anyway. “You good?” 

“Fuck,” Harry responds, laughing. “More than. Am I supposed to feel like, I dunno. Satisfied?” 

Zayn shrugs a shoulder. He doesn’t really know what it’s like for people after, actually. He’s never bothered to ask. “You did just have an orgasm,” he says, and Harry smiles, smug. 

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” 

Zayn rolls his eyes and kisses him again, just to shut him up. 

\---

“So,” Harry asks the next morning as he brushes his teeth. “Your teeth don’t leave a scar?” 

Zayn comes up behind him, looks at their reflection in the mirror. Their hair’s a mess and Zayn’s got love bites littering his chest and stomach and Harry’s got foam all around his mouth. Zayn wants to kiss him again anyway, wants to kiss him forever. 

“No,” he says instead, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder. “When I like, heal the bite or whatever, it keeps it from scarring.” 

“Huh,” Harry says, and spits into the sink. He rinses his mouth and puts his toothbrush away, turning to face Zayn once he’s done. “D’you think that works on every cut, or just like, the ones from your fangs? Because it’d be nice for like, if I accidentally cut myself or whatever. Useful, like.” 

“Shut up,” Zayn says, rolling his eyes. He’s such an idiot. Zayn doesn’t understand why he likes him so much. 

Harry grins at him. “You’re going to have to make me.” 

_Oh right_ , Zayn thinks, tugging Harry down into a kiss. _That probably has something to do with it_.

**Author's Note:**

> [I'm here if you wanna talk about it](http://jessimond.tumblr.com). Thanks for reading!!


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